workers or
homeless one’s not liable
to bring for
Christmas Dinner. No room in the inn. Pity.

A young
girl gets sick of
suburbia, shop lifts, runs away to

the city,
hooks up with a pimp,
lands in jail. Sent
home to

begin life
over
again—worse for wear. It’s
an English
theme

she’s
writing. No thesis.
Somewhat confusing to read unless

you don’t
mind the lack of
sequential order and can go with

the flow.

Beginnings,
Middles, Ends
(closure) This is the temporal

sequential
structure to
which we are most naturally addicted.

Even these
sentences as
well as talk-in-air and the music we

love is
time bound and
temporal and reinforces
the habit of

beginnings,
middles, and
ends.

As opposed
to All-At-Once
Simultaneity which is what we
swim in—alma
matrix, whelm, womb, hustera, unconscious
—but can barely conceive of & hardly access or appreciate
because of
our time-bound beginnings,
middles, ends.

Once upon a
time: first this, then that,
than more to come—
in sequence. Not All At Once

Can you
conjure right now
your simultaneous all-at-once
experience going on? Represent?
IT is actually more of
lived experience
than the temporal beginning middle
end
sequences.

We reduce
all-at-once & the unconscious to it came-upon-
the-midnight-clear of beginnings middles
& ending because
that’s the dominant manipulative and
instrumental habit
of consciousness.

Hurry up
please, it's Time. Going some where. Getting
stuff
done.

No wonder
BeHereNow is
almost impossible to access. All at

Once-ness,
not in
sequence. Think of
what is HAP-ening all
at

once right
now in this
room which you can’t say or represent
or image or imagine except
sequentially. A
reduction, yes?
An injustice, true? A rip-off of the whole,
don’t you agree?
A crime. An act of violence, so to
speak.

Facebook Badge

Facebook Badge

Auto Bio

I choose, as a determining POINT in my life, to acknowledge a bullet fired into the armpit of my grandfather, Samuel Scoville, Jr. by athief in the night sometime in the late 19thc.

The thief escaped, my grandfather having pulled his own pistol from beneath the pillow,squeezing off a couple of rounds and sendingthe burglar scurrying into the Connecticut night...

For reasons offamily notoriety, the incident was reported in both New York and Philadelphia papers. A former roommate in Philly called up Young Goodman Sam, inviting him down for a weekend gala: The Yale-Penn Football game. “You can take my sister Katherine, and chaperone me and my fiancé, he said.

In those days couples were not advised to be alone. Unaccompanied.

Sam took a steam-driven locomotive train down toPhiladelphia, escorted Katherine to the leather-helmet contest, fell in love, asked her to marry him.She did & they lived more or less HAP-ily ever after, generating a tribe of offspring who like wise generated in kind so that if it hadn’t of been for that bullet, well, it’s impossible to begin to consider how unimaginably different life-as-we-know-itwould have been. No one can say.

For one thing: YOU, dear Reader, wouldn’t be reading THIS HERE right now, resurrecting these words to walk around in your skull-haus this very be-here-now moment. So even you are impacted forever by that bullet.

(I could drive up to Connecticut right now, retrieve the small bite of lead, drop it in your hand and remind you how co-incidental our life is—how inexplicable, how arbitrary & selective our accounts, how much we omit which is also absolutely necessary, how inadequate our because & affects.)

The bullet is a NECESSARY butINSUFFICIENT cause of who-I-am, without which any explanation would be incomplete. Sam Scoville